Zoo. Planetarium. Church. Part III

The following is Part III of a three part series.   If you haven’t read the first two parts, scroll down and check ‘em out first…it will make more sense. 

Part III.​

 

There is a Church with peeling paint in the corner of a forgotten part of town.  The pillars at its entryway used to be a dazzling white, but now, from behind the rusty scaffolding that surrounds them, they appear to be a weathered yellow.

 

John McArthur grew up in this Church, and after more than a decade of geographical and spiritual distance, he has come home.

 

It is Easter morning, just before 7am, and John is nervous.   Standing just outside the threshold of the warped oak doors, John peers in at a Congregation of no more than 30.  A slightly out of tune piano paints the air.  No one has noticed him yet, and he briefly contemplates getting in his car and leaving, but he decides against it.  After a deep breath, John enters the Church and walks to the front pew, avoiding contact with all the eyes now noticing him.  John is this morning’s preacher.

 

John sits down, and the opening Hymn begins.  His hands begin to sweat as the moment for his preaching draws near.  After the Hymn comes the first reading, and John’s heart begins to race.  Then, as the Scripture reader takes his seat, John feels the eyes of the Congregation on the back of his head.  Suddenly a very gentle old hand rests on his shoulder.  He turns and sees an old woman smiling with every wrinkle in her countenance.

 

“You’re up now, child.”

 

John nods.  Standing and pivoting to face the Congregation, all eyes are on him.  He begins with a sigh, kneading his brow as he breaths out, looking down.

 

“I never understood how my father could do this week after week.”

 

“So much hope, so much faith in that man’s words…peace and preaching seemed to come naturally to him.  I could never…”

 

Pregnant pauses separate his thoughts, and a few people shift their weight in the pews.

 

“I don’t know why I’m here.  I haven’t even set foot in a church in years.”

 

He breathes out loudly.

 

“I loved my dad, and when I saw him before he died last week, that was the first time I’d seen him in over a decade.  It was so great and difficult to see him.  Even then, after all those years, and on his death bed, he still smiled so warmly and hugged me with the strength of a bear.”

 

Another pause.

 

“He asked me to preach today.” He chuckled nervously, and the Congregation followed suit.

 

“I tried to refuse on the grounds that I can’t preach, but he insisted that I’m already a preacher-that I do it every day in my classroom with my students.  But, if I’m honest, I refused because…because I don’t believe any of this.”

 

These words both surprised and pained him to say.

 

“I have a hard time with religion,” he rephrased.  “I see it as a bunch of dusty slogans and rusty structures that try to point to something greater, something I’m not so sure even exists.  How can you all be so sure?  There is too much unknown.”

 

He pauses to try and think where he is going with this.

 

“My dad never seemed to have trouble with the mystery.  He saw God in everything.”

 

“I believe in my dad.  He taught me how to see the world.  Most of what he taught me, he taught from right here, in this spot.  I sat in those pews, and he paced in the aisle right where I’m standing.  I never saw him much at home because he was so devoted to his work here, but every Sunday morning we shared our longest conversation of the week; his sermon.  It was fairly one sided, as you might imagine.  There was no talking back to dad when he had his preacher’s neck on.”

 

He stops suddenly; embarrassed to have said in public what he called his Father’s clerical collar as a kid.  The congregation laughs, much to his relief, and this has an immediate calming effect on John.

 

Smiling now, John continues, “I still remember how it felt to listen to him preach.  I remember everything.  He always spoke of this church and how it was God’s kingdom in a small package.  ‘Each and every one of you offers a new angle on the image of God,’ he’d say.  ‘Through Ms. Sara I see God’s compassion.  Through Dr. Slovinski we see God’s patience.  Through lil Johnny here, I always behold God’s wonderful sense of humor.’  You guys always loved that part.  I hated it.  Fortunately he only said it every other Sunday.”

 

They laugh again.

 

“I remember how it felt to sing the Lord’s prayer.  I never understood it-‘Thou’ is such an odd word after all- but it always felt good to sing it, with Mrs. Edward’s voice warbling in the 3rd pew.”

 

He turns his gaze to the old piano now, his eyes wide and reminiscent.

“The piano sounds the same too.  And the smell – moth balls and Lysol – the same.”

 

“I feel at home here.”

 

His words surprise him again, but this time, in a soothing way.

 

Then, amidst one of John’s frequent pauses, the old woman with the smiling countenance picks up a dusty Bible and points at it, motioning to John to come and take it.

 

“Don’t forget the Gospel, child.” she says with love.

 

Wiping a bit of moisture from his brow, John reaches for the Bible and opened it to the marked page.  It is the Gospel of John, the Easter lesson for the day.  Deciding to overlook the obvious irony of the particular Gospel for that day, John recites the words he had heard his dad say so many times, so many years ago.

 

“Today’s Gospel comes from John, chapter 20 verses 19 – 23.”  He says this with a lower voice than before, almost, in a way, as if trying to replicate the authority of his late father’s voice.

 

“Praise to you, O Christ.” the congregation responds.

 

On the evening of that day, the first day of the week, the doors being locked where the disciples were for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said to them, “Peace be with you.”

When he had said this, he showed them his hands and his side.  Then the disciples were glad when they saw the Lord.  Jesus said to them again,

“Peace be with you.  As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you…”

 

John stops.  The words seem too heavy for him to read, and he closes the Bible leaving the last two verses unread.

 

“Those were my father’s last words. ‘Peace be with you.’”

 

Silence.

 

“I didn’t know how to respond when he said it. I think I was still in denial that he was dying. He was holding my hand when he said these words, and though he was looking at me, it felt as if he was looking beyond me. In my confusion, a part of me reached back to years ago, and I said the only thing that came to mind: ‘And also with you.’”

 

“He breathed his last later that evening.”

 

John pauses to breathe.

 

“I…I…”

 

As he stumbles over his words, John begins to cup his hand with his finger tips touching, and gesture toward his chest, literally reaching for what he was feeling.

 

“I feel peace.” he said this more exhaling than speaking.

 

“I don’t understand, I can’t understand all of this.  There is too much unknown – too much mystery with God- but I do feel something move me in this place, and I cannot deny that.  As I read that Gospel and remember my dad’s words, and as I hear that piano and smell the smell of this place…there is Something real happening here; something I feel my dad was always pointing to.”

 

He feels his shoulders lighten as this sense of peace warms his chest.  This was a new sensation for him, or at least a forgotten one, and suddenly the questions didn’t matter anymore. Then, for the first time during his sermon, he looks directly at the Congregation.

 

“My doors were locked, but Peace is with me,” he said quietly, “May peace be with you.”

 

 Then, after a moment, John sat down.

 

Despite ending in an admittedly abrupt manner, he returned to his pew feeling satisfied and relieved.  The service pushed on with its normal momentum, and he remained rather aloof for the remainder of their time together.

 

Afterward, people smiled and embraced John, shaking his hand in thanks for his message.

 

“It’s good to have you home,” they’d say.

 

As the last few people filed out, the lady with the smiling countenance approached John with that dusty Bible in her hands.  She handed it to him, and hugged him firmly.  Smiling with her eyes, she walked passed John and moved toward the door.

 

Opening the Bible, John was taken aback when he saw his father’s name written on the inside cover.  This was his father’s Bible.  Taped on the inside of the next page, John found an envelope with a key in it.  He called to the woman that gave him the Bible, and held up the key with a question furled in his brow.

 

“It’s to the closet in his office,” she said.  “I presumed you would want to gather his belongings.”

 

Suddenly with a lump in his throat, John walked toward the office he hadn’t set foot in since he was in High School.

 

The door creaked as it always had, and most of the books were dusty now. After so many years of use, Dad had probably memorized most of their content.  This thought made him smile.  His desk was orderly as usual.

 

The closet door had an old Lenten banner hanging from it, crooked.  John tried the key.  After a bit of jostling the door wobbled open.  Inside he found an old communion set, a single Pastoral robe and stole, and a few rolled up banners.  Between the robe and the stole, however, he noticed another hanger.  Assuming it to be empty, he pulled it out to move it aside, but it did have something on it after all.  It was a small t-shirt, salmon in color.

 

As he turned the shirt toward him, his heart leapt.  It wasn’t so much the sight of the giraffe that struck him, but how vibrant the colors of the African sunset had remained after all these years.  This was his favorite t-shirt as a kid, and he could not believe his dad kept it, and in such good condition.

 

After taking in the sight of his shirt for several moments, he draped it carefully over his shoulder and gathered a few objects into an empty box on the office floor.  Picking it up and blowing the dust off the items in the box, John headed for his car.

 

The sun was higher in the sky now, and bright, and the morning air was still damp and fresh with dew and wind.  Setting the box on the back of his trunk, he glanced at his father’s Bible on the top of the box.  Not able to pull his eyes from it, he put his keys back in his pocket, and took the Bible in his hands. He didn’t open it.  He just stared at it.

 

Then, turning and leaning back against his car, he held the Bible to his chest.

 

“The real thing always speaks for itself,” he thought.